


jesus on the dashboard

by figure8



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Organized Crime, POV Outsider, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: The car smells like blood.





	jesus on the dashboard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [XiuChen4Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XiuChen4Ever/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Reality Turns Red So Easily](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690406) by [XiuChen4Ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XiuChen4Ever/pseuds/XiuChen4Ever). 

> dear xiuchen4ever,  
i was initially going to remix another work of yours, but mark in _reality turns red so easily_ grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go until his story was told. it does feel like i stretched the limits of the rules of remixing here, i hope that’s okay with you. i’ve always been fascinated with POV outsider re:the main pairing, and to me this very much is a jongdae/minseok fic—i hope that transpires for everyone that reads it, too. 
> 
> this is rated M for the themes. prostitution is alluded to but never portrayed or even really named. if there’s anything else you feel i need to tag, please don’t hesitate to tell me!
> 
> while i think it’s possible to read this as a standalone, it probably will make much more sense coupled with the original fic, considering it picks up exactly where _reality turns red so easily_ left off.

_ It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, _

_ it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio, _

_ how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days _

_ were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple _

_ to slice into pieces. _

— R. SIKEN

  
  


The car smells like blood. Mark’s hands shake around the steering wheel, anxiety distilled into his bones drop by drop. On his right Jongdae is completely still, gaze fixed ahead on the road. His breathing has slowed down, matching the pace of the vehicle now—slow and steady. There is red under his fingernails. Silence wraps itself around the both of them, soft like a blanket, heavy like the world. 

Mark likes silence. Where they come from quiet is good—quiet means  _ alive.  _ Death is loud. Death echoes in the night, gunshots and shouts and the clanking of metal. In the soundless dark Mark feels at peace. It’s a strange refuge to have as a nineteen year old, when his peers seem to always be seeking louder, brighter, bigger; but Mark’s used to being the odd one out by now. 

Outside the afternoon is turning into evening, light slowly fading. The landscape, too, transforms like a shapeshifter; grey buildings blur into tired trees at first, then an ocean of green and yellow as they reach the countryside. 

They’ve been driving for almost two hours when Jongdae finally speaks.

“Pull over,” he orders. His voice is harsh. Mark expected it to be mellower by now, but one look at Jongdae strips him of that particular illusion: the elder’s body is still taut like a bow, adrenaline coursing through him drug-like, worry etched on his sculpted face. 

So Mark just nods and stops the car, and Jongdae steps out hastily. When he pops the trunk open and pulls Xiumin out, that’s when he finally  _ lets go,  _ muscles relaxing, shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly. Xiumin swears loudly once his feet hit the ground, grimaces as he rubs his aching chest and then throws his blood-soaked coat back in the trunk. Mark sympathizes—he’s been shot through a bulletproof vest before, and while it beats being  _ dead,  _ it still hurts like a bitch. 

“Sacrifices must be made,” Jongdae jokes, but in his light chuckle Mark hears the heavy sigh of relief, the shakiness of disbelief. He’s never seen Jongdae unsure before. It’s unsettling. 

“So they must,” Xiumin agrees, tone weirdly formal. It sounds like vows. Mark suddenly feels like he shouldn’t be here—shouldn’t be watching. 

When Jongdae pulls Xiumin into a hug the older man yelps in surprised pain, but he allows himself to be squeezed anyway, like he needs the reassurance of touch just as much as Jongdae does. 

Xiumin finally acknowledges Mark’s presence when Jongdae lets go of him. “It’s good to see you, kid.” 

Mark swallows dryly. It’s been hard, rearranging the boxes inside his own head. Xiumin has always belonged in the one with  _ danger  _ written all over it in bold red. When he closes his eyes sometimes he can still picture Xiumin waving a Glock in his face, clear as day. 

But Jongdae trusts him, and Mark trusts Jongdae.

“You’re driving now, right?” is all he manages to say in return. 

Xiumin huffs. “Of course I am. You don’t have a license, right? And Chenny’s driving makes me anxious. I’ve had enough heart pounding for one day.”

“Cool,” Mark nods. “I’ll get in the back, then.” 

Once the engine has started again, Xiumin meets Mark’s eyes in the mirror. “I’m Kim Minseok, by the way.” 

“Kim Jongdae,” Jongdae offers too, but Mark is too busy freaking out over learning Xiumin’s real name to pay attention to information he already half possessed.

_ Kim Minseok.  _ He plays with it for a second, turns it around. It’s a normal name, a simple name. It doesn’t fit him. It settles heavy on the tip of Mark’s tongue as he repeats it in a whisper.  _ Kim Minseok  _ doesn’t carry the underworld on his shoulders.  _ Kim Minseok’s  _ clothes aren’t stained scarlet. 

But that’s the point, he supposes. That’s exactly the point. 

“Lee Minhyung,” Mark gives them in exchange. He hasn’t said these two words in years, hasn’t  _ heard them  _ in even longer. It doesn’t feel like giving up a part of himself, which should be worrying. Mark is numb to it. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

Which is a lie, but he’s hoping that can change. In the front Jongdae shakes his head, fond. Mark’s stomach twists in apprehension. The car still smells absurdly strongly like hemoglobin. 

“To infinity and beyond,” Xiumin mutters to himself, before pressing the accelerator, motor roaring. Mark frowns at the Star Trek reference, back taped to the car seat with how fast they’re suddenly going. It’s a nice change from their previous pace; he knows he drives like a senior citizen. Sue him, cars are terrifying, and he had a not-dead body as cargo. 

“Twenty minutes or so until we hit a rest stop,” Jongdae announces after a while. He twists in his seat, unbuckles his belt so he can turn completely to face Mark. “I want you to head straight to the bathroom. There are individual stalls in that one. Wash your face. Put on the clean outfit you packed. Join us back in the parking lot in 10, okay?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “You’ve already told me all that.” 

“Better safe than sorry,” Jongdae insists. 

  
  


In the badly lit restrooms, staring haggard at the mirror no matter how much cold water he splashes his face with, Mark takes a few deep breaths and reassess the situation. 

He’s a nineteen year old orphan. CPS hasn’t heard from him or seen him in way too long to care, and he’s not even a minor anymore. He’s pretty certain his friends think he’s dead. He’s driving cross-country with the ringleader of one of Seoul’s most notorious gangs at the wheel, his enforcer riding shotgun, as a result of the most insane exit strategy he’s even seen anyone plan, both in movies and in real life. In about 12 hours maximum, Xiumin’s supposed death will be all over the news, and if they’re not out of sight and mind by then, they can probably all kiss their dreams of a free—and alive—future goodbye. 

“Oh, I’m doing great,” he tells his reflection, jaw clenched. “Absolutely fucking  _ peachy. _ ”

A knock on the stall door almost gives him a heart attack. 

“Hey, are you fucking done?” a high pitched but undeniably masculine voice enquires. “The other toilet doesn’t flush and I need to pee.” 

“Yeah,” Mark assures the stranger, voice the tiniest bit strangled. “Uh, sure, sorry. Give me one second.” 

“Fucking finally,” the other guy mumbles.

Mark isn’t sure what he expected him to look like. When he pushes the door open he’s surprised and not so surprised at the same time. The boy—and it’s a  _ boy,  _ probably a little bit younger than Mark himself—is tan, on the tall side, and awfully pretty. He’s wearing black boots, black skinny jeans that have seen better days, and a dirty white T-shirt. They take a handful of breaths just observing each other, gauging. 

Then nature calls louder and the boy pushes past Mark and into the stall hastily, wordless. 

He doesn’t take much time. Mark is still unrolling hand towels and shoving them in the pockets of his jacket when he comes back out of the stall. His copper hair is slicked back now, wet in the front. Mark wonders how long it’s been since he’s had access to a shower and a bed. He doesn’t smell, but Mark knows from experience that doesn’t mean much up to a certain point. There are tricks. One learns them fast when being attractive becomes their main pillar of survival. 

“Hey,” he says. The boy presses his back to the wall, gaze piercing. “I’m Mark,” Mark offers, casual and easy. He’s hoping their closeness in age will play in his favor. Pretty little things like that, you need to treat them carefully in order not to spook them. 

“I’m Haechan,” the boy answers. Mark has been in the business long enough to spot a fake name. He’s also been in the business long enough to know it’s rude to point it out.

“You hungry, Haechan?”

Haechan’s eyes narrow into two small suspicious crescents. 

“I’m not going to suck your dick for some ramyeon,” he says. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mark smiles. “Let me buy you a sandwich. No strings attached.” 

Jongdae is going to kill him and he’ll be right. He said ten minutes. If they’re already gone Mark will not fault them. 

At the same time, isn’t stuff like this exactly why Mark risked his life by going to the cops? Wouldn’t Jongdae  _ get it,  _ when he took one look at Mark all these years ago and decided enough was enough?

Haechan frowns. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Mark shrugs. “It’s just—I’ve been you. And I can afford the sandwich now. So.” 

There’s a canyon between them, in this shoddy bathroom, under the harsh neon light. It’s twenty centimeters long. It’s Jongdae-shaped. People like them don’t get rescued. Mark is an anomaly. Mark is alive and safe because of pure chance and maybe God’s grace. He wants to be Jongdae to someone else. One hot meal at a time, maybe, he can build a bridge across the canyon. 

“Come on, man,” he says, extending his hand out. “Whichever of these shops you like. You can pick the most crowded one if it makes you feel better.” 

Haechan chuckles bitterly. “I don’t think anyone would care if you tried to murder me in plain sight.” He pushes himself off the wall but doesn’t take Mark’s offered hand. “McDonald’s,” he says finally. “Let’s go to McDonald’s.” 

  
  


While they wait in line Mark watches him. His skin is perfect, which at their age can only mean genetic blessing, especially considering Haechan’s lifestyle. He has terrible posture, constantly slouching. Hips angled out, two fingers hooked in a belt loop, he’s intentionally provocative. His body is a billboard, after all. Has to be. 

At the counter he leans in, elbows on the plexiglass, and orders a bulgogi burger and a large Coke in the sweetest voice. He thanks the cashier twice. Mark appreciates that. He buys a quarter pounder for himself, and two Big Macs as leverage for Jongdae’s forgiveness. 

“Thanks for the food,” Heachan says, paper bag in hand. 

Mark looks at him again. There’s something—he can’t explain it. He just doesn’t want to let go just yet. Feels like he shouldn’t. A strange case of FOMO but worse, this time with life or death consequences. 

“I’ll walk you out,” he says. Predictably, Haechan refuses. 

“Yeah, thanks but no thanks.” 

Mark respects that. It’s dark outside. He leaves the boy in the fast food restaurant, sprints to the backlot. Jongdae, as expected, is irate. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I said  _ ten fucking minutes. _ ”

“Sorry, dad,” Mark mutters. “I brought food.” 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Jongdae grunts. “Wait, is that a Big Mac?”

“Two,” Mark beams. 

“I’m still going to kill you,” Jongdae shakes a finger in his face, and then grabs the bag. “Get in the back. I can’t believe how dumb you are.” 

He gets a stream of insults from Xiumin, too. Xiumin  _ grounds  _ him, which Mark thinks is hilarious. He doesn’t really care about not being allowed out at the next stop anyway. 

Jongdae feeds Xiumin while they’re on the road. Holds the bag under his chin so that his clothes won’t get oil on them, brings the burger up to his mouth patiently for each bite. When Mark’s mom was sick, he vaguely remembers his father gently giving her spoonfuls of soup in her hospital bed, slowly, waiting a full minute between each just in case she’d throw up. 

They pull up at a motel at one in the morning. Xiumin is yawning, and he swerved once, eyes closed furtively, clearly unfit to drive any more. 

“Out,” Jongdae orders. He picks out one bag and shoulders it, and looks both Mark and Xiumin up and down before they walk into the reception area, makes sure they look socially presentable. The lady at the front desk doesn’t even bother raising her head from her computer, just slaps a key on the counter and wishes them a good night in a dull monotone voice. 

“You can take that bed,” Jongdae tells Mark once they’re inside their room, pointing to the right. There are two queen beds in the center, complete with a horrid set of cheap pink sheets and pillows. 

While Mark brushes his teeth with one of the travel toothbrushes Jongdae made him pick up at a Seven Eleven weeks before, he can hear the two men talking in hushed tones back in the bedroom. He sticks his cheek to the bathroom door.

“Seokkie,” Jongdae is saying. “I’ll watch the exits. Just go to sleep.” Xiumin is talking way too low for Mark to decipher what he’s saying, but whatever it was, it makes Jongdae sigh. When Mark comes out of the adjacent bathroom Xiumin is curled up on the mattress, still dressed, Jongdae’s jacket over him. “He wanted first watch,” Jongdae explains when Mark is caught staring. The body decides, Mark knows. When it has to, it wins over the mind. 

“Are you going to guard us, then?” Mark whispers. Jongdae chuckles softly. 

“Go to bed, Mark Lee. I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn.”

Mark’s turn comes  _ never,  _ because what does wake him up is not Jongdae’s voice but the sun filtering in from the blinds. They were closed in the night, Mark is sure of that, which means someone got up before sunrise and toyed with the windows one way or another. He stretches his hands above his head, spine cracking satisfyingly. The digital watch on his left wrist indicates 6:37 AM. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Xiumin greets him dryly. Mark blinks up at him. He looks fresher, less haunted, but not exactly by much.

“Where’s Jongdae?” Mark croaks, vocal chords still heavy with sleep. His right forearm tingles weirdly. He fell asleep on it, maybe. 

“Looking for a new car,” Xiumin says. “If you’re hungry, you better hurry to the convenience store before he gets back.”

Mark arches an eyebrow. “I thought I was grounded.”

Xiumin shakes his head, chortles lightly. “Tomorrow is another day, and all that bullshit. Don’t make me regret it, kid.” He waves 5000 wons in Mark’s face. “Get yourself an egg sandwich or whatever.”

Mark grabs the cash and bows reflexively. 

He grabs a pack of chips and a large caramel latte from the e-mart on the side of the road, sticks the provided plastic straw in the aluminum lid and slurps down his sweet coffee greedily. On the highway cars pass him by so fast their colors blur together,  _ nyoom,  _ blue-red-blue-red-white. They all have a destination. He doesn’t. 

“I see Minseok let you out,” Jongdae’s cheerful tone doesn’t match with the concern constantly etched on his forehead, wrinkles developed overnight. He got his leather jacket back, and all cleaned up he looks like a rockstar, not a criminal. 

“He’s nice,” Mark says, mouth full. He doesn’t really believe that, but it makes Jongdae grin. 

“He likes kids,” Jongdae says. “Wanted a few of his own, before—well, you know.”

“I’m a fully grown adult,” Mark protests. Jongdae snorts, looks at him pointedly. 

“You are a lost baby bird. That’s what  _ got _ him, you know. When I was arguing in your favor.”

“That I’m young?” 

“That you deserve a second chance,” Jongdae shakes his head. “And if he took the first one from you, he wanted to give you back the second.”

“Like a debt,” Mark says. 

“Like a debt,” Jongdae nods. 

  
  


Mark kept going to his father’s church even after his death. 

He met Jongdae there. Crossed paths with him, more precisely, because  _ met  _ implies that they were strangers before that, and while in a way they were, in many others they were not. 

It was strange, seeing Jongdae kneel. Hands linked, head bowed in guilt, silently asking for forgiveness. Mark didn’t believe he had the space for that in him, then. 

He wonders still today, what Jongdae confesses in the box.  _ Forgive me father,  _ the deep staccato of his voice like a metronome,  _ for I have sinned.  _

What did Jongdae believe he needed to be washed clean of? His love for a man or the blood on his hands?

  
  


It takes less than a day to drive to Busan, but Jongdae wants them to take the scenic route. And by scenic he mostly means stopping at every motel imaginable, and stealing a car at every stop, which Mark is still convinced is a terrible idea. They have not gotten caught yet, though, and the more convoluted the road the less they see news from Seoul on tv screens, which is good. Less chances of being recognized. 

Jongdae taught him how to drive, a lifetime ago. Doesn’t mean Mark ever got  _ good  _ at it, but it remains one of his fondest memories. Jongdae is an awful teacher. In empty parking lots, in the night, Mark remembers failing to signal his turns and Jongdae waving it away with a smirk,  _ nobody cares about the traffic code in a car chase.  _ Back then they were not planning yet on fleeing, or Jongdae would maybe have insisted on  _ some  _ rules. He’s anxious now every time Mark takes the wheel, but it’s mostly for nothing: Mark is ten times more stressed and overcompensates by going exactly 5 under the limit, hands rigid and eyes trained on the signs. 

“We are  _ not  _ stealing a Mazda,” Xiumin grumbles from the backseat where he’s supposed to be horizontal and recharging his batteries. 

“I’m just looking,” Jongdae chuckles on Mark’s right. 

“I know that look,” Xiumin insists. “Scratch that, I’m fucking tired of switching cars. If you make me bleach another trunk I’m going to shoot you for real.” 

There is tenderness in death threats, Mark knows. Jongdae found him after a bad trip one night, and his voice had been cold then, but around the edges, his pretense had slipped.  _ If you die, you little shit, I’ll reanimate you and kill you myself, with my bare hands _ —

When he didn’t understand yet that Jongdae was tired, looking for an exit sign, he used to think this was mentorship. 

_ It has made him soft,  _ Jongdae had told him once,  _ loving me.  _ In the moment his words mostly sounded like a cautionary tale.  _ So I have to get him out of there before someone else finds out.  _

Staring at Xiumin through the rearview mirror, in his fleece blanket, his hair mussed by sleep, Mark thinks softness is something uncovered—nurtured—but there all along. And if Minseok is a gun, Jongdae is a knife, and both are made of metal; brought close to a flame, metal melts slowly,  _ softens.  _

  
  


In Busan Jongdae throws a handful of keys at him after they’ve unloaded Mark and his bag on the side of the road. There’s a key ring holding them together, a teddy bear in fake leather sewn with red string. Its eyes are two tiny black buttons.

“I’ll see you around, kiddo,” Jongdae says, window rolled, sunglasses obscuring his gaze. 

“Are you… are you leaving me here?” Mark asks, disbelief coloring his voice. 

Jongdae shakes his head fondly. “This is love, Minhyung. I’m not gonna insult you by telling you you’ll understand when you’re older. You already understand.” 

Mark hears himself reply on autopilot. “You’re not even gonna step out of the car?”

“I’m bad at goodbyes,” Jongdae shrugs. “Let’s just skip that.” 

From the driver’s seat, Kim Minseok offers him a military salute, two fingers to the temple. “It’s been a pleasure, kid. Take care of yourself.” 

“You’re really leaving me alone here,” Mark repeats, dumbfounded. 

Jongdae takes off his glasses, leans towards him, elbow out of the open window. “Minhyung,” he says again. Mark decides there and then he does not like the way his birth name sounds anymore. “I’m not going to drag you across the planet for a life of hiding. This is your stop.” He gestures to Mark’s things. “There’s an ID in the pocket of your bag. Buy yourself some beer. Get a job.”

Mark huffs. It comes out bitter. 

“I’m proud of you,” Jongdae says. His stare is heavy. Mark wishes the sunglasses were still on. 

An eternity ago, Jongdae taught him how to properly shoot a gun.  _ I’m proud of you.  _

Mark pushes the words that are trying to come out right back down through his gullet, like spun glass piling up. He swallows  _ I don’t want you to go  _ and spits it out chewed, transformed. “Thanks.”

The car drives away, engine gently purring. If this were a movie, there would be a cloud of smoke and a sad song playing. This is real life and all that resonates in Mark’s ears is the clamor of the city, traffic and chatter and loud ads from the radio on the balcony two meters above. 

  
  


Mark gets a job at the docks. He has strong arms and he can make his way through enough english to communicate with some of the Pakistani immigrants the company has hired, and that’s enough of a CV for his manager. 

The keys Jongdae left him lead him to, in order:

  * a closed parking garage where an old motorcycle is waiting for him,
  * a PO box in which he finds 5 million wons,
  * a small apartment nested above a 24/7 convenience store, in a corner in one of the worst parts of town. 

He knows Xiumin must have old friends in Busan, but he also knows Xiumin is  _ dead.  _ On bad days he can’t help but wonder if someone is watching him, or checking up on him once in a while, at least. He doesn’t know which answer he’s hoping for. 

He dreams of their plan. There were at least fifteen ways for it to go wrong and Mark goes through every single one of them at night, wakes up screaming and expecting his clothes to be covered in blood. He dreams other dreams too. He sees the boy from the rest stop once, in a slumber thought that is neither dream nor nightmare but something else entirely.  _ Haechan,  _ Mark calls after him, but the boy never turns around to face him. If Mark had his name, his real name, maybe— 

_ You can’t save everyone,  _ Jongdae had told him when the plan was still in its inception, grip punitive on Mark’s shoulders.  _ This is rule number one. You have to leave people behind.  _

There’s a boy around Mark’s age that works the night shifts at the e-mart on the ground floor of Mark’s building. His nametag reads  _ LEE JENO,  _ but it takes Mark a few days to realize he has a nametag at all, and in that time he’s taken the habit of calling him Cat Eyes in his head. It’s a fitting nickname. There is something feline about him, in the way his eyes split into small moons when he smiles and when he says thank you, nose scrunched up the slightest. 

“You’re Minhyung, right?” Jeno asks one evening as Mark is counting his 500 bills to pay for his nightly post-shift ramyeon. The upper part of his back is aching and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have enough change on him. 

“Uh,” Mark frowns, raising his eyes from his wallet. “Have I told you that before?” 

He feels like he would remember that, but he also has never been very good at general coherency when pretty boys are involved. 

“Nah, but you’ve told my boss,” Jeno shrugs. “A letter came for you. They put it in our box by mistake, wait.” He squats down, disappears behind the counter. “Here you go. And ah, just take the ramyeon.” 

He’s blushing when he comes back up, but it might just be that blood rushed to his head when he was looking for the letter, Mark reasons with himself. He takes the envelope, bows in thanks.

“No, it’s—”

“Just take the food, Minhyung. On my employee discount, okay?” 

“Ah,” Mark scratches the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Thanks, man. I swear I’ll carry a few thousands next time.”

“Don’t sweat it. You can buy me coffee or whatever next time if the burden of debt is too much,” Jeno grins. Inside Mark’s stomach an army of small butterflies is dancing the salsa. His face is on fire when he exits the store.

On the envelope, Jongdae’s handwriting is as neat as ever, round and smooth. The postal stamp says Hong Kong. 

In the night, under the street lights, Mark closes his eyes and breathes.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading ❤️


End file.
